


A Knight to Remember

by AParisianShakespearean



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Cunnilingus, Drinking & Talking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Romantic Banter, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 15:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: It's only the two of them. And unlike one of those romance novels where it’s a lady and a knight, they get to write the rest. He’s very intrigued by the things she can come up with, this lady and knight, writing lines onto his skin and making a new story of their own.In this story, the two knights will be each other’s own.





	A Knight to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during that cutaway in 8 x 04. They've always been my favorite GOT ship and I was too compelled not to write this. Please enjoy! :)

He’s sure that one look at him would allow no one to toy with or entertain the notion, but it doesn’t make the fact false. He’s not ashamed of it. At any rate, why should the fact that the Kingslayer has in the past, dabbled in reading novels of a more romantic sort be such a shame? It's not. Truly, no, not even if he feels like his thing with Brienne—if it can be called that, has played out a bit similarly to a novel. But he and Brienne are certainly not a romance. Two knights never get to fall in love in a romance, it’s always a lady and a knight. And Brienne, lady and knight, defies. Jaime too has always defied, save in different ways. Perhaps that was why they defied so well together in battle. Perhaps that’s why he feels she would like to continue to do so, albeit in another way.

Yes, Jaime defies. Perhaps because of that, his secret occupation of reader isn’t a habit he announces. He drank though when Tyrion pointed at him and made his guess during their little game. At least his little brother didn’t ask something along the lines of “Jaime Lannister looks at Ser Brienne of Tarth more than he has too.” The Northern wine was already too heady on his tongue, any more drink would have been too sweet. He was suffering under the crippling sweetness of her flittering glances toward him enough, though it did make his cheeks grow hot. But he drank readily enough, even though at first the wine wasn’t something he had a taste for. Once he preferred dryer wines and acidic meads, but he’s grown accustomed to the Northern fare. He doesn’t want things growing on him, he told Brienne as much when he came to her room. But maybe he can grow accustomed to many things. He does, after all, defy.

Jaime Lannister, accustomed to a certain woman, thought nothing of that sort of woman as he told Brienne that the rules were she had to drink. He was very much focused on the present situation he brought himself in. Too much, that the next thing he knew was meeting her lips with his. She kissed back, ardently so. In his interpretation of her glances in the hall, he interpreted right. She was also right earlier, when she said he sounded jealous of Tormund. Knights are usually right anyway.

He kisses because knows from a few romance novels, and living as well, that kissing is better than talking, especially when they’ve talked far too much in the past, and he’s said more than he should. Her present kisses in reply also spoke to that fact. Presently as well— and the present was what mattered—it’s warm in her room. Too warm, and the Northern wine is warmer still on his tongue. The clothes she helped him take off don’t really help matters, and Brienne really is quite tall. Armor makes her broader than she truly is, though she still takes up space, even if he’s naturally broader, though she’s of course she’s still taller. In general, she’s so much, but she’s not too much. She’s enough and yet she thrills while simultaneously she satisfies with the way she kisses him back. All these are things he can handle.

She’s a virgin but she certainly hasn’t saved herself for anything—still he’s aware he’s quite privileged. He hasn’t slept with a knight before. Yet she’s the one that pulls away from his eager mouth.

“You don’t mind…?” she asks, holding onto him.

“Not if you don’t mind me,” he replies.

She glances away briefly to the glowing fire, and he wonders what she thinks he refers to—his own relative lack of adventure with women or his missing hand. The gold must be uncomfortable against her skin. Cold. He can’t bear to think of her cold. He also can’t bear taking it off.

He angles himself so she won’t have to feel it, yet she surprises him by taking it, holding it in her own hand. She caresses his wrist that’s still him and not gold.

“It must get heavy,” she says, fingers warm on his bare skin.

Lannister gold is indeed heavy, but he doesn't reply, and the silence elicits her to sigh. He doesn’t let her say what she’s thinking—that he lost it because of her. It’s not entirely true, and guilt has no place in a bedroom.

“I survived, didn’t I?” he says instead, standing proud and tall--a tall that only reaches her forehead. “We survived.”

“You stood by me the whole time.”

He nods. During the whole exchange they’ve been close, but there’s a flood of warmth as she wraps her arms around his neck. They inch closer.

He was half hard before he walked in. The kisses consumed him, and when his hardness brushes up against her, she peeks below before meeting his eyes. His grin is sheepish.

“I was under your command,” he tells her.

“Was it more?”

“I’m here now,” he says, diverting the conversation after her quite accusatory tone.

“Jaime…”

“I am here,” he says again. “Perhaps that would be an answer.”

“I wanted to kiss you after the battle.”

He blinks. Such a confession, one that charms and delights him. It floods him with boldness and he increases their contact. She certainly can feel him against her, but all she does is regard it, peeking below again.

There’s a slight intake of breath. “I thought of what it would be like,” she continues to confess as his palm presses against her back. She draws another quick intake of breath as the touch involuntary rubs her heat against his cock.

“Not like this,” he says, accustomed to all the warmth of the room.

“Could have been romantic,” she supposes, “like one of those moments in a novel.”

“You read novels?”

She blushes and doesn’t admit it, so he makes another admittance of a similar vein. He tells her he wanted to kiss her right before the battle, during that moment of quiet, but Tormund Gianstbane was there.

She points out he’s not there now. It’s only them. He’s aware. And unlike one of those romance novels where it’s a lady and a knight, they get to write the rest. He’s very intrigued by the things she can come up with, this lady and knight, writing lines onto his skin and making a new story of their own.

In this story, the two knights will be each other’s own.

One hand splays across his back, the other holds his face. She’s amused by his beard, he can tell by the way she toys with it, and he wonders if it prickled her as they kissed, or if it would deter her from wanting to kiss him more, and in places other than her lips. He would kiss her everywhere, scars and bruises and breasts. His eyes drift briefly there before he can think the glance lecherous. They’re taut and pert, nipples a rosy pink. He’s seen her naked before but that was a long time ago and his vision was hazy as he sat delirious in the bathwater with her. He was too weak to commit that vision to memory, too something or other to want to. In his good mind then, he swallows at this site, compelled by them and her, and her strong shoulders and tantalizing hollow at the base of her throat. He wouldn’t deign to say Brienne is delicate, but he cannot say she is coarse or rough either. She simply is.

He leans in, presses his lips to her ear. He doesn’t think of the past or what led him there, but he whispers that if she doesn’t want—

She doesn’t let him finish. “You’re a good man,” she says.

“I—”

She presses two fingers to his lips, not wanting to hear him deny it. She kisses him fiercely and he thinks that’s how their kiss would have tasted had they crashed into each other’s arms after the battle. It would have been hard and present, tasting like the urgent now. They would have kissed like two ghosts coming back to life.

In her warm room, she parts, and he’s only vaguely aware of that breath they share before she kisses him again. He thinks that’s how their first kiss would have tasted had it happened after he knighted her. Delicate, soft, a continuation of the act of love he did, the act he wanted to give and what she deserved. He asks questions without words as she falls against the furs of her bed and he awkwardly kicks off his boots, gravitating toward her. His question is simple and complicated, a wondering of if she felt it then, and if she knows he did it because he respected her more than he could say. He asks without words if she knows he did it because in that moment before battle, when he was sure he was going to die come dawn, he had such an overwhelming part of him that wanted to give love.

He asks without words and she replies without words by welcoming him glide over her body. Did he even feel that before Brienne? He couldn’t remember, but what shocks him more is that he doesn’t care to. Sometimes he was such an object. It may not be true, but he feels it to be true. What was it about Brienne that unlocked that part of him that was so keen on giving? And that was the way he gave the other night when he knighted her, to make something that was already true truer.

Now he hovers over her, with her pale eyes dark in the warm room. Fuck. He wants to give more, and more, until he has nothing left to give and she renews him until he’s ready and able again.

She’s a virgin but that doesn’t mean she’s naïve—far from it. In fact, he can tell she knows a few things by the way her fingers curl around his hair, and the way her other palm slips down and kneads his ropey back, playing with band of his breeches. She’s wise enough already to know lovemaking is in the hands and mouth, but she also knows the other part, as she thrusts her hips up, just so. It makes him sigh and bite his lip. He can be feral, much like the wildcat of his house’s crest—but he thinks he’ll let Brienne be the wildcat tonight. Yet first…

He stops her hands from unlacing his breeches. His bearded mouth presses against the strength of her abdomen, and he’s so fascinated by the strength and sinews of her as he kisses and worships, left hand toying with one of her nipples between his digits. Her head lulls against the fur pillow, and he instinctively moves his lips to her exposed neck. She sings under his ministrations. He wonders if she’ll sing louder.

“You know,” he whispers, hand enticing her legs to part, skimming between her thighs… “I was thinking—"

“Do it.”

The bluntness of the order makes his brows quirk. She slaps his cheek, not hard, not hard at all, but enough to make him laugh.

“Come now, Sir,” she says liltingly, “I hear it’s a fair thought, to lie between a knight’s thighs.”

Of course. A virgin, but not naïve. Besides, she’s read. He’s read too, but only in quiet moments when he thought no one would notice, but of course his brother did.

“Tell me,” he beckons, “have you pleasured yourself before, my lady?”

He calls her “my lady” even as he asks such a carnal thing. “Why?” she asks, though he sees she’s taken to the phrase. “Do you want to see?”

His cock twitches at the thought of her naked in her bed and touching herself, but he wants to give and he wants to taste. He tells her so and she’s more than eager to help him get her out of those breeches. They fall forgotten near their discarded shirts, and he considers reminding her he told her they had to drink: that was the rule. But as his head dips between her thighs and lips and teeth make gentle marks against her sinewy thighs, he knows how drunk her taste will make him. He plans to make her equally drunk with pleasure.

Oh fuck, she sings as he laps at her clit, and he wants to see her writhe with the pleasure his mouth brings. She tastes sweeter than the Winterfell wine and it won’t be long before he’s in a stupor off the way she tastes and the way her thighs clamp around him. It won’t be long until he’s accustomed to her, until a night without tasting her or getting drunk off of her will drive him mad. Yet perhaps what they’re doing is already madness.

She twists her fingers through his hair, calling his name as she comes against his mouth. He didn’t think she would come that soon—in fact he had plans to draw it out and make it last. The first orgasm he gives her is quick but powerful, her legs still trembling as he caresses her thigh and brings her back to earth. The first, but not the last.

Certainly not the last. “Now,” he says, “I know I can’t woo half as well as a hero in a half decent novel, but please, my lady…tell me I’m good at that.”

“So you read too.”

“Oh dear. Caught.”

She smirks at the trap he laid for himself, but wounding him again, she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a compliment at his tongue’s skill. He sees she needs more testing to be sure. So he settles himself between her thighs again, lightly toying with her clit with a delicate thumb, yet before he can hook a leg over his back, she tells him that’s not what she wants.

Puzzled, he peeks at her. She grabs his shoulders and motions for him to pull upward so they’re face to face. Once he obeys she has no more ceremony, if there ever was in the first place. She helps him pull off his breeches, getting them past his hips. He takes care of the rest, cursing when they get caught in his ankles. Even before they’re gone and away she had been getting experimental with him—those light and tentative touches were enough to make him tremble, but when they increase after they’re together in full nakedness and she’s stroking his cock, he’s lost.

He sinks atop her. Just as easily as he can get drunk off of touching her, he can get drunk off of her touching him. Then, their eyes meet and in the firelight glow, it reminds him he cannot let this moment go without ceremony, even as Brienne thrusts her hips upward in a demand for him then and there. He cannot take her so easily that way anyway—he’s learned from times past that the most basic of sexual positions keeps much of his weight on his left side, with his golden right hand unable to help leverage him. He has another idea, one that’s more creative anyway. Brienne’s the type that would appreciate such things.

She’s puzzled as he guides her to their sides, his right arm underneath her head as a sort of cushion. He doesn’t want her to feel that coldness. With his other hand, he cups her cheek as he guides his hips. Understanding, Brienne helps him, wraps her leg around. Even not fully inside she’s warm and wet, cinches perfectly around him in a way that’s not something familiar or something he’s accounted to, but not so foreign. He’s at the risk of becoming lost and only thinking of his end, but he remembers he’s her first, he should be ceremonious.

Yet as Jaime searches for any sign of pain on her face he finds none. He finds instead a slightly concerned, yet blissful bent of brow. There’s also a remembrance in her eyes.

She knows she’s his first too.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“No,” she replies as she presses herself against his hips and he’s seeped fuller inside. He considers asking if he feels good to her, but she kisses him instead before the question is even uttered. Lips and neck are kissed by her ardent mouth as they make love as a gentle rock, holding and caressing on their sides with her leg wrapped around him. Never is he fully inside, but she’s so tight and it’s been so long—a different position would warrant a time frame that would likely be embarrassingly short. She moans and sings as he ravishes her neck, reaches between them past her blonde curls to touch her sensitive bundle of nerves. She comes moments later, and that sweet clench around him is enough to send him over the edge. He has to pull out. She moans in protest but understands as he flops to his back. He strokes his cock until he’s coming and spilling on his belly. He can feel her watch, and she rests her head on his pillow and lightly strokes his arm as he comes back to the earth. Eyes half closed, he feels her move away. Before he can outstretch his arm to ask her to come back, he feels her near him again.

She wipes the traces of him away with a cloth before setting it aside. She’s framed by a firelit glow. He made her hair messy when he was inside her and he ruffled it. He straightens it a little. She returns the favor, smoothing his beard as well.

“You like?”

“Yes,” she says, patting him lightly. “I like your beard.”

He clarifies he meant the act they took part in. She grins when a lot of the time she frowns. Some positive, at least. But she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a clear affirmative.

Instead, she gives him something better. She wraps an arm around him, presses her cheek against his fevered skin.

He sighs a lazy contended sigh, “That was…”

“A night to remember?” she suggests.

There’s a double meaning behind that, something he points out. It’s one of the last things he thinks of before drifting to sleep. That, along with Brienne holding back her laughter and resting her head against the crook of his neck.

 

* * *

 

 He wakes up an hour later, and Brienne, covered in furs, holds out a goblet.

“Come now Ser Jaime,” she says, “let’s celebrate to your first.”

Wrapped in furs in the bed, they drink. Brienne finishes hers while he takes only a few sips before setting the goblet aside. She narrows her eyes at him, bemoans how he’s breaking the rules he set up.

“That was for before,” he clarifies. “Not after.”

“Night’s not over yet. How do you know there won’t be more?”

Wine glistens her lips. He’s enamored with that detail, wants to taste the sweetness of it and the heady Brienne, but he has to make himself content with her hands, skimming down the side of his body. The room is still so warm, her hair is in disarray and her eyes are wide with want again. He tastes both the wine and her on her lips, kissing all traces of berry off until there’s only Brienne. His cock, springing back to life, leaks spend onto his belly as she lightly strokes up and down. Either the wine or her first time has made her bolder, or perhaps it’s the way he raggedly breaths and moans to only the best sort of pleasure, second only to being inside. He even toys with the idea of him in her mouth—though fuck, he wants to be inside her again.

He doesn’t suggest it nor does she say _I want to be on top of you,_ but he saw the look and her eye and he knew she wanted to ride him. It surprises him how much he wants to be ridden, thrills him when he tries to get up briefly to readjust and she ends up practically tossing him back against the sheets. She moves to straddle his hips, delicate at first, tentative and perhaps a little worried he would snap in two if she straddled him. He grips her hip, nods and assures her he can handle her. Few can he’s sure, and on top of that, none other have before. Shit, he was her first time and he’s honored she’s chosen him as a second, his brave, bold, loyal and good lady knight. She’s so good, in so many ways. He thinks of them but doesn’t say them as she’s between him, not fully inside, but outer lips wrapped around him, moving and coating him in her arousal. She’s littered with scars, as is he. In the nights that come he’s going to paint every one with his tongue. Yes, he realizes. There will be a time after, and a time after, if she will have him.

Then she reaches for both of his hands, and he thinks perhaps it won’t come.

“Brienne…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, curious and almost frightened she would know.

“Is it…?”

And then there it is, that she would know that as well. He shakes his head but it’s no use.

She sighs. “Doesn’t it get heavy?” she asks, repeating an earlier question.

“No,” he lies.

“You can take it off.”

“What? You mean now? During this?” He motions to her on top of him, and his own self encased between her, very much still aroused during their conversation.

“Jaime…”

“Brienne.”

“You should call me my Lady again.”

“Will you drop it if I do?”

“If that’s what you want, perhaps.”

He sighs and obeys. “My Lady, please…”

She leans against his form, breasts caressing his chest. She kisses him, holds his bearded face in one hand as the other helps guide him inside. She straddles and he’s fully seeped inside, deep. She adjusts to him by swiveling her hips, he helps leverage her by gripping her slim hips. Like before, he’s careful to touch, grip, and caress with only his left hand.

“You’re lucky I want you.”

“Oh, do you?”

She doesn’t move, but swivels again, smirking. “I’m on top of you after I've already made love to you before, and you ask me if I want you,” she says, not mocking but teasing in that way young lovers do. “Yes. I want. And…”

But she gasps as he rises, surprised momentarily before she goes with it, wrapping an arm around her.

She cradles his bearded face in her hands. She whispers in his ear, “I want you to say it too.”

“I came here, didn’t I?

In punishment, she doesn’t meet when he tries to thrust. “Come now. Say it,” she orders. “You’ve read at least a few books in your time. You know how these things go.”

In retribution he presses his lips to her slightly parted mouth, tongue lightly lining her bottom lip to ask for an entrance.

“I want you, Sir Brienne.”

A knight is what he wants, a knight is what he has as her legs coil around him and she derives pleasure from riding him. She’s in control but she lets him rise to meet her. He’s deep inside, moaning in pleasure but she seemingly controls all the sounds that he makes. He’s so accustomed to this already, to her. He almost forgets he’s done this before her. Brienne, beautiful lady, honorable knight. She renews.

“I want you,” she says, her hands sliding down his back, and lower to grip that plumpish flesh. _“Jaime_.”

It’s not enough. He wraps both his arms around her and holds her tight, all of him that’s Lannister gold, lost Jaime and also found Jaime. Jaime is what she wants, the one that came to Winterfell, and for a moment as her hand sinks between them and she pleasures herself as she rides him, he wonders if he can stay found Jaime. He wonders if he’s capable of staying, if growing accustomed to things truly isn’t so bad. He wonders if he can do it.

She comes undone above him. He realizes he’s going to spill inside her, tells her she has to get off of him to make sure that it’s not a possibility.

“Do you want to stay inside?” She breathes.

He won’t lie, that’s not honorable. “Yes.”

“Then stay,” she says.

“But—”

“Please,” she beckons, still moving. She wants she says, and he’s too overcome, too lost to think and know better. She’s there to meet him in a kiss as he comes inside of her. Not next time, he makes a note of, can he do it again, because yes, there will be a next time. He’s accustomed to her now.

He can grow accustomed to many things.

She’s not so naïve, she says after by his side, their heads and bodies touching, sweet contact after their two sessions. She knows what causes pregnancy, but also knows a herbal remedy.

“How would you know?” he asks, “If this is your first time?” and he’s lucky she didn’t hit him.

“Same way I know how to do what I just did, thank you very much,” she replies, pulling a fur blanket over them.

“Point taken.”

In the quiet of the after, slightly sweaty, satiated, yet happy, Brienne takes his left hand, entwines their fingers. “I thought I was going to die during the battle,” she says.

“Me too,” he confesses, before sighing. He thought earlier he wanted to see the story she would write on his skin, and though he’s quite thrilled, he wonders if the writer is happy. He asks, “are you happy?” Yet perplexed, Brienne, his ser, turns her head and asks what he means.

He flusters. “I mean…you don’t regret it?”

“No,” she replies, firm.

“You’re sure?”

She frowns. “You’re making it sound like you regret it.”

“My lady,” he says, ravishingly, “I’m already quite accustomed to you.”

She curls closer. “And this?”

“And this,” he promises.

He kisses her cheek not long after, thinking she’s asleep. She’s not. She smiles when he parts, tells her she should rest for the morning, if she will have him.

“Kingslayer,” she says. “You plan to stay?”

He reminds her—his name is Jaime, and yes, Jaime will stay. Jaime is who she tells goodnight too, who she kisses once more. And when she wakes in the morn and he wears not his golden Lannister hand, it is only Jaime there to kiss her good morning. It’s quite like a novel of a romantic sort, but far better. It’s Jaime and Brienne.


End file.
